The sun was setting.
Circling around...

Here, then:
There is pain...

There stared bold at me
the light...

Two weeks in-
the shell pealed back...

With the hard bristle brush
I take to my flesh...

The Faith is mere mythology:
a siren song on a barren sea...

I imagine now a lonely death,
where I may muster sickened breaths...

I shall write of you no more.
But so alone...

There is no sun beyond the fog,
no beacon in the deadened smog...

We are all heir to Sheol’s fumes:
the thousand shocks...

With you there is respect
for the nothing new...

‘There is no God but God’,
the prophets said...